Because I Stood Alone
by AlwaysFidelius
Summary: Finnick's story, from his first victory to falling in love with his wild-eyed tribute, Annie Cersta. Rated for mentions of prostitution—intended for a more mature audience, but nothing explicit!
1. Chapter 1

My first Hunger Games fanfiction! :) From what I've read on this website, Finnick is a favorite character with a lot of people, so I hope that I write all of the characters well and whatnot. Feel free to review! Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or any of the associated characters. Enjoy reading!

Chapter One

Finnick

He came to slowly, blinking against a hard florescent light. The ceiling was white, paneled, the room narrow and spartan. _Where am I?_Everything hurt. Everything ached. His head was spinning unpleasantly.

"Finnick," The voice belonged unmistakably to Mags. He turned his eyes towards the ceiling and her face slid into focus: strong boned, clear-eyed. She looked worried. "You fainted, just after the ceremony—exhaustion, the nurses said.

She trailed off, her gaze wandering to the IV in his arm. Everything ached. Through the open doorway, Finnick could see grey-uniformed nurses moving past. He was distracted by a sudden sound—footfalls. A dark-haired Avox girl had entered and crossed the narrow room, bearing an envelope. Her eyes fell upon his prone form and she tensed, extending the envelope timidly.

"What's that?" Mags queried. "Fan-mail?"

The Avox girl thrust the envelope into his hands, backed away, dropping her gaze to the floor. She felt as though frightened. She had every right to be. As the victor, the youngest victor, Finnick was dangerous. Pretty, but dangerous.

"Oh, dear." Mags sounded suddenly terse. Finnick lifted the envelope and opened it with trembling fingers. There was no indication of the sender, only a stamp in the upper right corner. A bloodred rose. He experienced a sharp thrill of foreboding.

_Finnick Odair—_

_Your presence is requested in the office of President Snow at five o'clock this evening. Your mentor is to leave you outside the building. Congratulations on your victory._

An official-looking seal curved across the bottom of the page.

"Finnick..." Mags's voice was deeply saddened. Endlessly so.

"What? Why does he want to see me?" Finnick experienced a brief moment of pure fear. "You were a victor—what does he want?"

"He—" Mags seemed about to speak, but then appeared to reconsider. "Maybe it will all be alright. I'm sure it will be, I'm sure..." She reached down and pressed a cool palm to his forehead, gently petting his shaggy hair. Finnick leaned against her soft touch, fear still hot in his chest.

Re-reading the note, he began to feel ill. He presence was 'requested'. There was no such thing as a 'request' in the Capitol, though. Only orders.

The President's office was enormous, richly decorated in red and grey. Every fixture seemed to be iron or steel, glinting the cold daylight. Finnick was ushered through the doors by a straight-backed, timid-eyed Avox woman; as he entered his bones ached and his head spun. Snow was seated behind a vast metallic desk—he was not alone, Finnick realized, his stomach lurching wildly.

A group of men and women had positioned themselves around the desk, and he recognized them from the TV screen, recognized their cruel faces and elegant clothing. The benefactors, the wealthiest supporters of the games. The Capitol's elite.

"The mentor is not here?" Snow questioned sharply, not bothering to address Mags by name. When Finnick shook his head mutely, Snow gestured to a simple chair before the desk. "Have a seat, then." It was not an offer, but an order.

Finnick sat. The assembled men and women watched him hungrily. That familiar feeling of dizzying illness rose again—the feeling that something was about to go very, very wrong.

"He's so...pretty." A young woman with high cheekbones and dozens of pale pink tattos smirked from the corner. "In real life, I mean. Up close."

Finnick was silent. Snow gave him a thin-lipped smile. "You recovered well from fainting, Finnick."

"The nurses said that it was exhaustion. I showed them the letter and they let me leave. M-mags brought here."

"Very good." Snow's pale eyes were cold. "You are fourteen, correct?"

"Y-yes." Finnick almost added _sir_ but hesitated. "Yes. I am."

"Mm." A fat middle-aged man ran his tongue across painted lips. Finnick felt a thrill of terror and fought to keep his face smooth and unreadable.

"The youngest victor." Another stepped forward, this time a woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties . Her eyes, a striking golden color, glowed in the dim office. "He looks so innocent." She bent down slightly, examining Finnick's face. Her dress was obscenely low-cut, and Finnick found himself looking away from her nearly exposed breasts.

"Like what you see?" She whispered close to his ear, her voice sultry.

"Stop." A second woman's voice rang out, high and clear, in the silent office. "He's too young."

"Fourteen—" The tattoed girl's smirk evened out. "When I was that age, I was doing far worse."

"Look at him." The woman continued, and Finnick saw that she was older, her pale hair swept into a regal bun. "He's just a boy."

"Some of us like them young," The golden-eyed woman trailed long fingernails across his arm, down his thigh. Finnick shuddered at her touch. Slow realization dawned, and his stomach clenched. They wanted him. They _wanted_him. He now understood Mag's dark gaze, the sadness that she had regarded him with. She knew. She had seen this happen before, he knew. She could not stop it.

"Enough, now." Snow did not sound angered in the slightest. He gave Finnick an appraising glance.

"Wait a few years, at least." The pale-haired woman said. She lowered her voice and spoke directly to President Snow. "Do you want his first..._experience_to be under such circumstances?"

"I have no opinion on the matter." Snow's lips curled into an icy smile. "I know only that Allotia will have paid dearly for this night."

The golden-eyed young woman ran her tongue across her lips slowly. "I have, Snow. I have."

"Then I need no longer be here." The pale-haired woman swept through the door, casting a pitying glance in Finnick's direction. The others followed her one by one, all of them saying their goodbyes to Snow and promising to see Finnick in a few year's time, when he was old enough. The very thought made him sick. The fat man left last.

Only the golden-eyed girl remained, standing before Snow's desk. She spoke in low, rushed tones.

"Your debt," She murmured, "You have paid it off."

"Very good." Snow suddenly seemed very preoccupied. He began to sort through papers on his desk. "In that case, you may take the boy and leave." He could not seem to look at Finnick.

"I will, Snow." She turned on her heels and crossed the office; Finnick rose to his feet, anger hot in his chest.

"I won't do this."

Snow glanced up; his eyes flashed. "Go with her, Finnick Odair."

"You can't—I'm not of age yet. You can't..." The words _sell me_ hung unspoken in the air. Snow pressed those thin cruel lips together, eyeing Finnick sharply.

"_Go._" Snow barked. Who was Finnick to refuse an order from the President? Cold fear gripped his insides as his thoughts flew to the armed Peacekeepers around the building. To refuse would be highly unwise. Feeling sick and fearful and stupid, he followed the golden-eyed girl from the president's office.

She lived downtown. The hover-taxi sped through a twist of narrow streets and broad avenues, never faltering or halting until it reached a gleaming white high-rise. Finnick sat in the backseat, hands folded in his lap, silent with fear. The golden-eyed girl was pretty, no doubt, with a thin face and attractive figure—that tight dress flaunted curves that proved she had enough to eat—but her eyes were so...freakishly shining, so sparkling, so golden. She wore minimal makeup, at least, but still...those eyes. She was watching Finnick in the manner that a hungry cat does a chased mouse.

They exited the hover-taxi, moved into a spotless lobby. Finnick heard whispers as they entered the elevator, and he feared for a moment that the other residents would see them, would realize what he was doing, but they turned away and the girl kept her distance until they stepped into the elevator.

It was not glass-walled like those in the Training Center, but instead dimly-lit. Wood, maybe, or metal. He could not tell. The golden-eyed girl turned to him, smiling almost sideways. Before Finnick could react, before he could flinch away, her mouth was pressed to his, her tongue sliding against his own.

Perhaps she felt him seize up beneath her hands, because she pulled away.

"You've never kissed a girl, have you?"

"I have." This was not a lie. Before leaving, he had kissed Rosie Singer in the alleyway behind the fishery. But that had been different—Rosie had been the one against the wall, and everything had been awkward and timid. Finnick felt sick.

"Allotia." She said. "That's my name."

Snow had owed her something, he thought. That was why he was here. Something to pay off the debt with, that was all. A bargaining chip in Snow's game.

When she kissed him again, he did not protest. If Allotia felt his shoulders stiffen beneath her hands, she made no notice. Her heavily lidded eyes were half-closed with the pleasure of it. She all but dragged him down the hallway and into her spacious apartment. The lights were dim. Finnick found himself pressed to the wall, her hands plunged into the waistband of his pants. She groaned. He could not breath. The world was spinning very fast around him and Mags was somewhere out there in the city, probably thinking of him and worrying. She had every right to.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the heady odor of her sickly perfume.

A/N: So...what do you all think? Good? Bad? Okay? Feel free to leave a review or send me a PM with comments or criticism! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, lovely readers! I hope that you enjoyed the first chapter—I forgot to add a disclaimer, so I'll just say now that I don't own the Hunger Games or any associated characters. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Two

When it was all over (and it was over very soon), he rose and fumbled his way through the dark bedroom. Allotia was sprawled across her bed—a black-leather affair, so different from the simple rope hammocks and sail-cloth cots of District Four. She was breathing heavily. The sound made him feel ill, because it meant that he had sated her.

"Oh, Finnick," She sighed. "You're so _good _at this. Are you sure that this is your first time?"

He snatched his pants, yanked them on, not bothering with undergarments. Finnick did not respond, because it _had _been his first time, and he had always thought that first times like that were supposed to be something sacred, carried out between you and the girl that you loved.

"I'm so lucky that Snow let me have you," Allotia added. Finnick turned and muttered something about taking a shower. He rushed into her spacious bathroom, still wearing pants. Sank to the floor, drew his knees to his chest. Finnick felt used, dirty. He was barefoot and his clothes were soaked through but he did not care. He felt numb.

Allotia was not kind, nor was her touch. She pushed him further than he had ever thought of going (not yet, at least, not now...) and in the heat of the moment he had been unable to refuse her. The jets of water alternated to warm and his shoulder began to sting; glancing down, he noticed the red marks. His shoulder, his stomach, the base of his throat. She had done this, she had marked him as her own. Repulsion welled up in his chest, hot and potent. He closed his eyes, wishing, wishing so hard that it hurt that he was anywhere but here in the glittering expanse of buildings. He hated the Capitol now, more than ever.

'Finnick..." Allotia's sultry tones echoed against the steamy walls; he opened his eyes, glanced up to see her enter. She was naked. He turned away, sickened by the sight of her body, unaltered though it was. Her eyes seemed to glow. "I'm back, Finnick."

He hated the way that she said his name.

"Want to play, Finnick?"

He shuddered, stared hard at the floor. He was so, so grateful that he had not stripped away his pants. "No."

"Oh, Finnick..." She approached too quickly and he did not have time to back away. Her fingers fell and skittered across his shoulder, his back and chest. "I think that you do."

"I don't." His voice quavered, just a little. "I want to go back. To the Training Center. My mentor is there—"

"But you're a victor now. No more training..." He could hear the smirk in her voice. "You can stay here all night, if you want to." Her hand idled on his chest. She didn't look at his face. Her gaze was...elsewhere. Lower. Sickness rose in his throat and chest.

"I don't." He repeated. Allotia did not listen; her hands were everywhere and he could not get away. He needed escape. "P-please." Finnick realized that he was begging her and felt pitiful. Here he was, the victor, the pretty boy from District Four, pleading with an older woman to leave him alone.

"Oh, Finnick," She sighed, her voice almost musical. "You don't belong to your District anymore. You belong to Snow now. To the Capitol."

"That's not true—"

"But it _is_, Finnick." She slid around him, standing beneath the spray. Those terrible eyes bore into his. She pressed her palms to his chest again. "It's so very true."

He felt himself begin to cry and felt horribly weak for it, but the shower's cool water dripped down his face and mingled with any falling tears. This time, when her hands reached his waistband, he did nothing to stop her. He stood facing her, facing the golden-eyed girl, but his mind was a million miles away.

Finnick returned to the Training Center the following morning. It was still early, and only the Avox room-keepers were about. He returned to his bedroom, listless. Allotia had tried her best to coax him into her bed, but he had refused. He was sick, he said. He didn't want to make her sick. He was going to be sick, right then and there, and he needed some air. He had spent the night outside her apartment, sitting against the hallway's cold wall. If anybody noticed or recognized him, they didn't say anything. He could find no way contact Mags.

"Finnick—" He felt a hand on his shoulder and started violently. A slender young man stood behind him, eyeing him with curiosity. "You look awful. Are you sick?"

"No." The slender frame, the earnest eyes and short maroon hair were very familiar. One of his stylists, a man called Treo. "I'm not sick."

"I heard about you fainting—exhaustion, right?" Treo said, looking serious. "That's really too bad. The Games are never kind to the tributes."

_What do you know about the Games? You've spent your entire life here. You've never had to worry about putting food on the table or clothes on your back._ Finnick wanted to say this but could not bring himself to. Instead he smiled thinly and continued down the hallway. Much to his disappointment, Treo followed, strolling along at his side.

"Finnick, you don't seem very well."

"No, I'm fine. Tired, is all. I just want to find my mentor." He could not disguise the red mark on his neck. Treo noticed this and suddenly his eyes darkened.

"Finnick..."

"Don't." Finnick ducked into his room—it was bare, stripped of his belongings, which were packed neatly on the floor. The shades were drawn and it was very dim.

"Last night..." Treo looked so very sad. "Your last night in the Capitol."

"I go home today." He glanced away. "It doesn't matter, anyways."

"It does." Treo said fiercely. "It _does_matter, Finnick. They used you, didn't they?"

"Yes." He would not cry. He would not cry.

"For..." Treo lowered his voice. "For se—"

"No," Finnick said, a little too quickly. He paused; memories flooding back: the dimly lit bedroom, heavy breathing and Allotia's one-sided pleasure. "Yes."

"Oh." Treo's pale eyes were shining suddenly with tears. "Oh, Finnick. You poor boy."

And then suddenly he was holding Finnick against his strong chest, and Finnick was trying not to cry but all that he wanted was to see Mags again because she understood him better than anyone else in this city.

"I know how it goes." Treo murmured; he released Finnick at last. "Another tribute—she was older than you, I was younger than I am now...I loved her. When she won..." He paused for a moment, lips pressed together. "She was beautiful. They used her up, those men. Made her afraid. But she was older. She had been with a man before. But you..."

"No," Finnick choked. "Please. It will be fine, okay?" He bent to gather his belongings, realized that he was trembling. "Thank you. Thank you, Treo."

He turned on his heel and rushed from the room, out into the bright clean hallway, blinking away the last of his tears. The only person on his mind was Mags.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or any of the associated characters. Thanks for the kind reviews and support of this fanfiction! I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Chapter Three

Mags was angry. Outraged. She could not remedy this situation, but...

"If I could, I would march right into that building and—" When her steady eyes began to darken and flash, Finnick cut her off.

"Mags, don't do anything stupid for me."

"I won't," She assured him softly. "No, I won't."

They were seated in his little bedroom on the train, stalling just beyond the main stretch of the Capitol. Finnick had once reveled in the train's richness, the elaborate curtains and tablecloths and rugs. Now, he stared listlessly through the window, watching as the buildings flashed passed. He had once thought them beautiful, those buildings, with their blinding brilliance. Now, he lowered his gaze, disgusted at the people that they housed, the corruption that they held.

Mags sighed softly. "I should have known." She sounded bitter.

"Should have known what?"

"A handsome boy like yourself..." She turned her face away, eyes hard like water-washed stones. "The Capitol does not salvage survivors of the Games. It corrupts them—it ruins them more than they have already been ruined."

Finnick wanted to protest, to tell her that he wasn't ruined, that deep down he was still good and whole. But at the moment, he simply could not find the words. Instead, he stared hard at his hands.

_I'm sorry, _he thought. _I'm so sorry, Mags._

* * *

><p>The return journey took several days—two, maybe three. Finnick did not count. He kept to himself, spent most of his time in the train's lavish bedrooms, spoke only to Mags. He dreaded nightfall, because nightfall meant darkness and being utterly alone with the only the memories of Allotia's hands on his skin.<p>

He wanted more than anything to forget her, forget her touch, but that would not happen. It could not, because every time Finnick undressed he could imagine her fingers tracing up his legs, her hands pressing where they never should have been. He showered often and could not force from his mind her terrible, taunting voice echoing in the apartment's bathroom.

The night before his return to District Four, Finnick stood in the shower for a long time. Jets of water, painfully hot, cascaded across the smooth skin of his shoulder blades and upper back. He ignored the burning sensation that every drop left; it was, after all, the only way to rid himself of that horrible feeling, the sick feeling of regret whenever he stepped into the shower. Just burn it all away.

He scrubbed with some sort of stiff brush and a bar of foamy soap until his skin tingled and then ached. When he climbed out, he still felt dirty.

* * *

><p>Before the train pulled into the station, he could hear it. Chanting, distant. It grew steadily louder until he could make out the words. His name.<p>

_"Finnick, Finnick, Finnick..." _A chorus of voices, at least a thousand strong, their words lifting up towards the pale sky. He pressed his hands to the train window; they had sped for the past few hours across barren plains, but now he could see, in the near distance, a glimmer that was...

"The ocean." Mags appeared at his side. "Welcome home."

Finnick's breath caught in his throat; the train turned sharply, pulling closer to the sea. His chest felt light for a moment—it was so beautiful, the ocean. The sea. A clear, calm blue, undulating gently for miles and miles, and far away from the shore becoming a deep smooth green. How he had missed the ocean!

"Are you ready?" Mags laid a hand on his shoulder; her firm grip reminded him that all was not well, that his world would change again soon enough. They turned again, more gently, and suddenly they were in the heart of District Four—low buildings with tile roofs that made up the town itself, and further away the fishing villages, with houses elevated a few feet off of the ground, and roofs made of old tiles and straw...

"I'm ready to go home." He told her. Not ready for anything else, not yet. Just to go home.

"You won't be, though." Her hand moved to his head. She tousled his hair in a motherly sort of way. Finnick had never thought of Mags as a motherly type. "You'll move to the Victor's Village."

"Do I have to?" If Mags heard the whiny tone in his voice, she ignored it. Nodded. Finnick sighed, very quietly, and then a Peacekeeper had entered the room and was herding them both out, into the sunlight. Beyond the train platform, a crowd stood, cheering as one. Upturned faces greeting their hero, their victor.

Overcome by their shouts, their chanting, Finnick raised his fist to the sky, flashed them a quick smile. The salty breeze whispered against his skin. It felt wonderful. The crowd went wild. A group of pretty girls near the front all but swooned when he smiled at them.

Finnick had seen other victors blow kisses to their fans, but he decided against it. Something more manly. He winked at everybody, winked until he began to wonder if people thought that maybe he just had a nervous twitch. They must not have, because suddenly everyone was his friend, his fan. He waved and winked held both of his fists towards the sky.

Standing there on the broad flat platform, with a great crowd chanting, screaming for him, only for a moment, Finnick did not feel dirty or regretful or bad. He felt light and full of a wild joy that might have been victory.


End file.
